


croquis

by redpaint



Category: Little Women (2019)
Genre: Artists, F/M, Modeling, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Voyeurism, my brain while watching little women 2019: amy tops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:06:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22206829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redpaint/pseuds/redpaint
Summary: Laurie poses for Amy in her studio. Fred Vaughn doesn't cut the session short.
Relationships: Theodore Laurence/Amy March
Comments: 23
Kudos: 333





	croquis

Laurie sprawls across the chairs on the platform, limbs loose from a couple of afternoon drinks. Amy despises it, despises _him_ , how easy it all comes to him, his smug self-assurance that everything will work out for him, no matter what he does, no matter how he misapplies his talents. She despises his eagerness, his easy privilege, everything that combines to make her imagine that she could have him and be happy, if that was what she wanted. It all reveals itself to her in the leg thrown over the arm of the chair, the face turned into the afternoon sunlight. How _dare_ he be so comfortable, when she had been made to struggle, and was still struggling, trading away her passion for a comfortable future and the sense that she hadn’t let her family down entirely.

She picks up a pencil and begins the sketch. The canvas bounces back against her strokes like taut skin, but she’s used to it. She works around the give of the fabric, outlining the long, slim lines of Laurie’s body. Seven years and she doesn’t think she has ever paid this much attention to the length of his legs and the delicate fineness of his wrist and hand. He’s smirking at her. She leaves the face blank for now.

“Take off your tie. It cuts off the line of your neck,” Amy says, safely concealed by the canvas. She hears rather than sees Laurie chuckle. There’s the slip of fabric on fabric, and the sound of the tie being tossed to the floor.

“Better?” Laurie asks, and doesn’t he sound so satisfied with himself. Amy chews at the end of the pencil. She peeks around the corner of the canvas and sees him fiddling with the collar of his shirt.

“No. Undo the top few buttons. Open up the waistcoat as well.”

Laurie scoffs a little. “Are you sure? Is Aunt March home? I wouldn’t want her to get any untoward ideas—”

Amy grips the pencil harder, steeling herself. “Laurie, do it.”

Laurie throws up his hands, but he’s smiling. “Your wish is my command.” He quickly undoes the buttons on the waistcoat. It falls away from his chest, the silky fabric shining in the natural light. He makes quick work of the shirt too, pulling the two sides apart so the sharp edges of his collarbones show through in the middle.

“That’s better,” Amy says, more for his benefit than hers. She _knows_ it’s better, can see the lines now, the planes of skin she’ll fill in with bright titanium white when she gets to the overpainting, pale skin glinting in the sunlight. Laurie presents himself like an already finished masterpiece, already bored with how good he looks, but of course she is the one who will have to do all the work to commit it to canvas.

She carves out the line of his neck on the canvas, then takes a step back, looks at it, and frowns. “Actually, no, I’m not sure this is quite right. Could you take the shirtsleeves off entirely?” She wills confidence into her voice that she doesn’t feel. Laurie could laugh her off, dismissive, but he doesn’t. He’s so clearly in love with her, ready to do anything. She tries not to notice how his coolness slips as he fumbles with the remaining buttons and awkwardly shrugs the shirt and waistcoat off his shoulders.

“Like this?” he asks, settling back into the chair. Now she can see how his chest moves in time with his breath, quicker than normal despite his placid expression. She doesn’t respond, letting the sound of graphite on canvas answer for her.

It’s either alcohol, infatuation, or youthful confidence that leads him to stick out his chest and tilt his head back a little further, but the effect is exquisite regardless. Amy pushes away the thought of trailing her fingers down his sternum, outlines the bones there instead. Half-naked and posed, he looks more like the hollow-eyed boys she sees haunting the streetcorners of Paris’s unsavory quarters than the heir to a respectable business. She imagines she could be one of the artists they call a genius, a voyeur painting her whores and calling it transgression.

“Do you like posing for portraits?” she asks, doing her best not to sound too amused.

“I like it when the artist is as lovely as you,” Laurie responds with a wink.

Amy hums, considering. She picks up a brush and taps the blunt end against her lips, making a show of working out where to take the portrait next. There’s a cool gray already mixed on her palette that would be suitable for painting his clothes. She dips the brush in and looks between her subject and the canvas.

“Would you undo your trousers for me?” she asks, all innocent artistic inquiry. Dispassionate, she hopes. Not to give Laurie any _ideas_.

Laurie raises his eyebrows all the way to the stupid curls that frame his forehead. He opens his mouth like he’s about to protest, but then he shuts it, his mouth curling into a cautious smile. His hands slide down to the front of his trousers and undo the buttons one by one. He doesn’t stop staring at her over the top of the canvas. She holds his gaze, unwilling to be the one to look away. Not after she’s thought about him, _wanted_ him for so long.

“Drawers as well,” she says, and there are absolutely no pretenses now, she holds the brush at her side, the canvas all but forgotten as she devours the inches of revealed skin with her eyes. If she were to cross the room, she could touch. She’s sure that Laurie’s been touched before, but she worries that the frustration she feels about her position in life would bleed from her fingers and onto his skin, roughness where there should be tenderness, indignation spelling itself out in raised red scratches down his back and sides.

Laurie’s cock is flushed and hard, framed against his stomach by the open fly of his trousers. Amy thinks about how she might paint it: a wash of alizarin crimson that would draw the viewer’s eye like it’s drawing hers, pretty and pink. She’s seen much of the same in books on classical art, seen it in the Louvre, but still, the thought of recording it with her own hand makes her blush in response. She smooths the smock down over her dress and takes a breath. This is no time for coyness. “And would you touch yourself, if the artist asked?”

Laurie touches himself tentatively at first, light strokes from base to tip that even Amy knows must be completely unsatisfying. She feigns turning back to the canvas, raising her brush, and then he gets bolder, wrapping his hand around his cock more firmly and moaning under his breath.

“Is this in line with the artist’s vision?” Laurie says, tempering the tightness in his voice with a shade of irony, too aloof for how he’s fucking into his own hand.

Amy looks between him and the canvas several times, pretends like this is a difficult decision to make. She worries the back end of the brush between her teeth, unladylike to the nth degree. “I think I’ll call it _Lord in Ecstasy_. Would you model that for me?”

Laurie gets to work showing her how good a model he can be, when an artist asks.

**Author's Note:**

> Croquis - A quick sketch drawing of a life model.
> 
> this is pure self-indulgent unedited nonsense, i hope it makes like. any sense at all.
> 
> i would plug my tumblr but im not a little women blog in any way shape or form, so leave me a comment instead i guess lmao


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